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Questions from a Sparrow

There’s a sparrow who comes to perch
on the wreath adorning my front door
We’ve had chance encounters thrice

It’s a startling experience to say the least
though I can’t speak for my counterpart
Usually, I’ll open the door to the flutter of tiny wings
taking quick flight from a potential threat
Twice I’ve been delighted to such
fleeting and brilliant moments of connection and wonder
Once my avian neighbor crossed my threshold
and landed gracefully upon the foyer side table
Small talons found a soft touchdown on my woolen winter hat
I made eye contact with two tiny black wells of infinity
I fell in
The bird nodded its head to the side
acknowledging the magic we shared
then it took its leave of me and my home

To whom do I owe the honor of these sacred visits?
How does one send invitations to the wild things that make our heart and head conjoin?
These are the questions the sparrow leaves for me
Until it returns

Style / type: 
Free verse
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Comments

Have a Cardinal that came to visit. My daughter was absolutely captivated by his presence. He was fairly social and she would go out on the back deck and watch him. He came many times over the course of a few years and sometimes brought his mate. We haven't seen either in a long time but surely enjoyed his visits when he came.

~RoseBlack~

As a matter of fact, I really like sparrows.
I think that they are amazingly smart little birds, and have admired them often.
You have described the attitude of a sparrow quite well.
I can see it now, the little bird thinking that he had been invited in; didn't see any danger
and decided to see what this new world was all about. Once he saw that it was quite as he imagined,
he went his way. Maybe thinking that he might steal a piece of that yarn for a cozy nest,
or perhaps wondering if one day, you may invite him for dinner. Nicely done sir.
~ Geez.
.

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Hello, Tim,
"I fell in..." What beautiful poetry, what an extraordinary thought. I felt the lovely connection, and I'm so glad you wrote this one. Just wonderful!
L

Tim,

This brings back memories of my maternal grandmother and grandfather. As a child, I often watched in wonder as my grandmother would feed the chickadees in her yard, some from her hand. Others would land on her head until the bird in her hand left. I also have a picture of my grandfather, years after my grandmother had died, sitting on the back steps feeding a chipmunk that was sitting in his hand. They had a connection to the natural world that is seldom seen these days.

Your poem reminded me of that connection and made me wonder where it had gone.

Thanx,
Steve

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